


a champagne year

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Australian snark, F/M, POV First Person, Shameless Smut, Snark, another Mendo AU yep, but totally consensual, hints of bdsm, obviously, occasionally rough sex, rapturous romanticism, sort of, this is as close to xReader as i get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-16 14:44:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9276542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: Really, there’s only one way to properly celebrate my birthday.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired specifically by this pic.
> 
>  
> 
> Title from the song by St Vincent. Because no other fit so perfect.

It’s our fifth date and I’m ready to put out. 

Actually I was ready to put out on the first but told myself to be sensible and wait for the warning signs to manifest. Like maybe he’s terrible with money, has no respect for women, hates his mother, doesn’t read, has awful taste in music, thinks the only films worth watching are made by old white European men. 

Such a weird phrase, put out. On the other hand, I like the image -- lying down naked across some table, and having him, still clothed, look down at me, his expression all ironic and appreciative. 

Maybe we can at some point. First things first.

The café is my idea, because Saturday in the park is so beautiful in late summer. Cool golden sunshine on the rich foliage, glimmering on the greens and blues of the lake. I cross my ankles, twirl my foot on the point of the stiletto heel, and lean back in the wrought iron chair, so very pleased because we may be meeting just for a late lunch but I’ve dressed up and I look incredible. I feel great, I have such a good feeling about today.

A flock of tiny birds arrow black across the pale blue sky, swift on the breeze that flutters the napkin on the iron lace table. I clap it down with my palm and catch sight of him coming around the curve of the lake edge. Dear god in heaven, he’s dressed up too. 

His silver grey hair thick and ruffled by the breeze, he clasps a newspaper folded lengthways in one hand like he’s just come from doing the weekend crossword over coffee. Only he’s in this ridiculously beautiful deep blue patterned suit and a rolled turtleneck sweater in snowy white, black shoes gleaming, so dapper as fuck I’m going hot all over just watching him stroll along in the beautiful world.

He sees me, his face goes from frowning to so gentle, a deep affection in the subtleness of his smile. As I get to my feet, mesmerised, he puts one hand at my waist. “Happy birthday,” he says and kisses me on the mouth, brief and hot. It’s our first kiss and completely unfair because I’m caught off guard and he’s moved away before I can react, before I can grab him back and devour him like I’ve wanted to for weeks now.

“Thank you,” I remember to say. 

He knows the effect he’s having on me. It shows in the gleaming little look he sneaks at me as he bends his head, his mouth curving as he puts the newspaper on the table, about to take the chair on that side. I can only shake my head, breathless with desire and laughing on the inside too. His cologne is all around me, it’s so male and expensive and thoroughly erotic. He hasn’t smelt like that the past few dates, then more neutral with a hint of cigarettes. He’s made such an effort today, oh my god.

As the waitress places the carafe of water and glasses between us, I smile up at her. She tells us the specials, and I realise slowly that he’s not paying her the slightest bit of attention. His eyes are this particular shade of blue grey, unnervingly clear when the sunlight catches them a certain way, and now they’re exactly as warm and appreciative as I had imagined. A very relaxed very heterosexual male regard that makes me look back at him in my own very pleased very heterosexual female way. My mind is filling with images of clothes scattered across a floor dappled with sunshine, and warm rumpled sheets in a bed next to a window, green plants on the sill.

“What would you like?”

Startled and trying to hide our smiles, we order. And his eyes slide over me as she leaves, the corner of his mouth turning slowly up. 

I can’t resist. “Like what you see?” 

Because my hair is up, my green blouse is very silky and pulls a little over my breasts, and below the table I have on this long tight pencil skirt and very high heels with broad ankle cuffs. I’m not kidding around here. 

Now the other corner turns up, mischief sparking in his grin. “Oh, always. How’s your birthday been so far?” His voice is smooth, the lazy lovely accent I’m so glad he’s kept. 

As he pours us water, I cross my ankles and lean back, relaxing into this. “Totally indulgent. I slept in, I woke up late, checked all my social media --”

He chuckles to himself.

“Yes, yes, I know. You don’t believe in social media.”

“Not true,” he protests, handing me a glass. 

“A valuable business tool.” I had meant it as mocking but then I hear myself, blushing a little as his grin turns positively wicked. I don’t even know why I’m blushing, I’m perfectly capable of being as lewd as the next person. 

“Oh shut up,” I mutter, sipping at my water. “How was your day?”

Our first date we talked mostly about our jobs. I had told him about the publishing house, what it’s like to be assistant to the editor. He’s head architect at some big city firm which I thought was a bit disappointing until he started telling me about their design principles, and after a while I’d stared at him and said, “You didn’t design CentraPark, did you?” He’d stared with some astonishment back at me for a few seconds and then I’d watched his mouth curl up at the corners for the very first time, all delight and sweetness.

“Yep.”

“Oh my god,” I had burst out. “I love that building! With the,” I flailed around, “with the greenery up the sides -- that’s so clever and right in the middle of the city, that area totally needed more green! And the solar panels all pretty up the top, the way they’re arranged -- are they solar panels?”

“Motorised mirrors,” he’d admitted, his eyes sparkling deep and clear. 

“Motorised mirrors,” I had repeated on a wondering breath. “What on earth does that mean? Tell me everything, oh my god.”

The way I remember it, I had practically put my chin on my hands and watched him adoringly as he talked about reflecting light down into the atrium. But no, I know I didn’t. Managed to contain my instant infatuation and gather my dignity around me, watching him with the growing knowledge that I wanted him and I was going to have him, that I was going to steadily turn up all my charm and all my allure and all my wit to reel him the fuck in.

Our second date we talked mostly about our families. His mother had died when he was in his thirties, and I liked the softness in his voice when he spoke of her. He told me of a fairly unsettled childhood, how he was thrown out of some American boarding school, sent back to Australia to live with his grandmother for a few years before he struck out on his own. It’s such a different life from mine, so unnervingly lonely, and I watch him with the awareness that though he’s in his forties now, that sense of family may not quite be there, not like I have. 

On the other hand, maybe I like that sort of self-determined independence.

He had listened to me talk about my parents, what it was like to grow up in the country, how I changed myself when I came to the city, how I was weirdly fascinated by explorers and doomed expeditions because maybe I wanted to travel so much farther than I had ever been. And he had smiled that warm affectionate smile, so many crinkling lines from the corner of his eye, his head ducking as he returned the glass of beer to the counter. Our first two dates had been in two different pubs, warm and cosy, and I knew with that smile that I could fall very hard for him, far more than lust required. 

He brought me a book on the third date, and I went very quiet when I realised it was Shackleton’s account of the Endeavour expedition. He told me it took him two weeks to feel warm again after he read that. I had grinned and called him weak which made him laugh even harder. 

After dinner, we had walked along the damp night streets, talking about the world and the places we’d seen, would like to visit. He’d smoked almost constantly on that walk, something that bothered me a little but it was too soon to say anything and I wasn’t going to be that asinine sanctimonious girl. And anyway, he was a grown man, about a decade older than me. Nothing I’d say would change his mind after all this time. So I’d watched the smoke wreathe around his clever articulate face, watched as he flicked the ash off the end, gesturing as he talked. And in a way I guess I got used to it. Five dates, so many hours of conversation, and he wouldn’t be him without a cigarette in his hand punctuating his sentences like every casual particularly Australian profanity.

Our fourth date was at the movies. “You pick,” I said, “but I get to veto.”

He’d chuckled under his breath and came back with Now Voyager at the heritage listed cinema. “How did you know,” I demanded the moment we met in the foyer.

“What,” he’d said, all wide innocent eyes.

“You knew,” I accused. “I don’t know how but you knew I loved this movie.”

As we climbed the red carpeted stairs to the cinema, he partially confessed. “The Bette Davis was a pretty educated guess, right?”

I snorted, refusing to be so obviously charmed by that mischievous face.

“But I am a bit surprised you’d go for the Paul Henreid type,” he’d added when we were taking our seats.

“I don’t,” I’d exclaimed, insulted. “He’s an ineffectual twerp, and she’s so much better than him.”

He has this habit of putting his hand to his mouth when he laughs. I think it’s a sort of defensive thing but I haven’t worked out why yet. 

“How dare you.” I’d glared at him, thoroughly enjoying myself. “I’m all about the lovely Claude Rains. He’s a darling.”

“Mm. And older than her.”

The lights dim, the silence stretches between us. He’s very carefully not looking at me.

“Old enough,” I say calmly. He doesn’t reply but I can see in the shadows when he smiles quietly to himself. 

“Anyway,” I add, “even Bette thought so.” And I tell him in a quick whisper about the interview where she said she always believed Charlotte ended up with the doctor rather than that wimpy Paul Henreid. He didn’t know that, his mouth surprised and beautifully crooked in the flicker from the screen, and I grin at him, delighted to be able to shed knowledge on him. Age difference be damned.

Now on this lovely day when I’m turning one year older, he smiles at the waitress when she brings us our entrées, and he asks me how my Masters is going. “Didn’t you have an assignment due last week?”

“Oh ugh.” I grimace, flapping out the napkin. “Fucking final essays, I loathe them.” 

He raises his brows, entirely too merry at my expense. “Why?”

“Because!” I know I’m whining but I don’t care, he’s asked so he’s going to hear this. “You have thirteen weeks to work up to this one assignment that’s worth like sixty per cent of your whole grade, and you’ve done so much study, so much reading that you have like --” I stab at the bruschetta piece, then decide I may as well use my hand to pick it up “-- thirty fucking pages of quotes and notes to somehow compress into four thousand five hundred words of sense. And oh! It also has to flow really really logically because otherwise their tiny little minds will fall over because you haven’t tediously set out every step in your argument because god forbid they should have some intelligence of their own!”

His shoulders are shaking. I eat my half-forgotten bruschetta, aware that I love making him laugh. Sometimes I’ll exaggerate a story just to get him to this stage of soundless helpless laughter, head ducked down because he’s probably going quite red. Sure enough, when he lifts his head, his lower lip is quite bitten and his eyes are so very blue and sparkling.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine. What do you reckon your mark will be?”

I wait until he’s taken a mouthful of bruschetta. “Probably a high credit. Have I mentioned high credits are the bane of my fucking life?”

He manages to say, completely outrageous, “Is that good?”

“No! A high credit’s like seventy-five to eighty per cent. If I get a high credit, I have severely fucked up!”

“You’re making it sound like such fun.”

“Haha, very droll. It’s hell, I don’t know why I ever decided to start this. I’d much rather stay home and read and do nothing.”

His brow creases with mild puzzlement. “But?”

“But,” I shrug, “this is what I want --”

“This hell.”

I point my fork at him. “The degree. I want that degree. And apparently it’s good to have goals, all the lifestyle websites tell me so.”

As he laughs, hand to his mouth, I add, “And you can’t tell me you don’t have goals, Mr Head Architect. That’s a goal, that’s ambition!”

He shrugs, reaching for his glass. “It’s a career. That’s what you do in a career.”

“Uh huh.”

He hears the ambivalence in my tone, blue eyes sharpening on me. “I take it the Masters is going to help with getting the editor job? Is that the idea?”

I shrug again, looking for the waitress and our mains. “I suppose, yeah.”

A moment of silence as the birds chirp somewhere beyond us and the breeze rustles through the trees. He puts down his cutlery and leans back in his chair. I don’t have to look at him to know I’m being fixed with a very clear unwavering gaze.

“Okay, what is it?” There’s an edge to his voice I haven’t heard before, it annoys me in turn, flicking a warning glance at him.

“What?”

He raises his brows, deliberate and quizzical, almost arrogant about it. “Why are you doing the degree if you don’t want the job?”

“Not everything is about money,” I snap. “Maybe I want to do it because I enjoy books, because I enjoy --”

“You’re certainly not enjoying the degree.”

Oh, there it is. I close my mouth slowly, staring at him with this awful discovery. He can be cruel, I see it now. And he’s not budging from this now, keeps his gaze locked to mine, steady and challenging. Aware that I’m also a little thrilled by this, I decide to meet it.

“Just because I’m having trouble adjusting to their expectations, because maybe I don’t fit into their narrow little --”

“You like that, don’t you?” The challenge is softer now, but no less snide. His eyes drop to my mouth, strangely hot. And oh, oh, he feels it too. Oh my. I don’t squirm in my seat, but I do cross my knees a little tighter, pressing my thighs closer together in the confines of the skirt. Something changes the contours of his face, somehow he seems sleeker, so more tapered as he dips his chin against the soft white of the turtleneck, and watches me, sly and unbearably intent. 

He’s going to start smouldering in a moment. Or I am. I can’t tell anymore.

“What?” I’ve lost track of the conversation.

“You like the idea that you’re so fucking unique, such a rebel that the system doesn’t know what to do with you.”

“Oh fuck you,” I say softly, hot under my blouse, hot between my thighs. 

“Mm.”

The waitress turns up, distracting us both with the mains. Across the table, he adjusts his cuffs, his expression unreadable, but clearly tamping down the sexual charisma. 

“Your suit is lovely,” I offer when we’re alone again. It’s such a deep perfect blue, jacket open, double-breasted, three buttoned, with a fine pattern of widely spaced lines intersecting like a really classy check. Such a bold pattern that I know not many men would risk it, far less with that gorgeous turtleneck that looks so luxurious and touchable.

He gives me a small tender smile. “Special day.” 

Now I’m blushing entirely for a different reason, warm with happiness. And as he grinds the pepper over his arrabiata, I decide to tell him.

“They’re making it difficult for me. At work, I mean.”

He focuses instantly, fierce. “How?”

“Just my hours. They don’t like me leaving early on uni days and they won’t let me take the day off either.” Upset despite my best efforts, I focus on cutting up my steak.

“What the fuck,” he says, so very Australian in his frank disgust.

“I know.”

“That’s not fucking on. So they’re just bitching at you, are they?”

“Yup!” I give him a brittle smile. “Life in a neoliberalist economy, huh? It’s just so fab.”

He laughs but the anger remains around his eyes. “That’s bullshit,” he insists, twirling his fork in the pasta. “There are at least three people at the firm doing some sort of study, and they take days off and no one gives them a hard time about it. That’s -- have you complained?”

“And what,” I counter, “make them even narkier with me to the point where they make it so unpleasant for me to work there that I have to quit? No. Fuck, no, I’m not giving them that satisfaction.”

As he nods, eating, I think for a moment then say it anyway. “You don’t know what that’s like, do you? At your level of management?”

He gives me a quick sharp look, and I realise. “Or maybe you do.”

Luckily, he doesn’t take the bait. “I’ve been there,” he says calmly. We eat for a little while in silence, then remark on the food. I reach over to try his arrabiata, flicking a smile at the way he watches me with that quiet tenderness. “That’s good steak,” he mumbles, pointing his fork at my plate.

“Right? Anyway,” I say flippantly, “if I was really a rebel and totally fucking unique, I’d quit my job and just study full-time, fuck bills and rent and being able to eat.”

He laughs but then something changes, flickers across his face. He’s had a thought, I can tell. Curious, I transfer a piece of gratin to his plate. “What?”

His mouth curves a little, his expression rueful. But then he says quite seriously and with great care, “I could always help you out. With the rent and bills and stuff.” 

He knows instantly he’s said the wrong thing. In the silence, he spreads his hands, opens his mouth, closes it again, and then grins at me. Utterly fucking incorrigible. I know I’m being teased but I don’t explode in rage. I consider it for a few seconds and then look up at him.

“And you could always fuck off back before second wave feminism.”

He laughs, turning faintly pink. “Aren’t you meant to be more up to date than that?”

My god, he’s so fucking cheeky.

“I am, and you’re still not taking any of my financial independence, screw you very much.”

But it’s my birthday so I’m going to let him pay this one time. I’ve already decided that. He touches my hand as we talk over dessert of chocolate tarts, just his little finger hooking around mine. And when the bill comes, I reach for it simply to see what he’ll do. Without missing a beat, he keeps talking about the coffee in Melbourne and swipes the little leather folder away from my hand. I don’t even bother to hide my delight, and he gives me a very knowing little smile as he slips his card in. 

“Suave as fuck,” I murmur as we leave the café. The breeze is coming up but there’s still so much golden light in the sky and trees. He chuckles as he takes my hand and tucks it into the crook of his elbow. We’ll walk for a little bit, never mind my heels, and now I gaze at his profile, so very happy to be able to look at him, so happy he’s with me. 

“Want to come back to my place,” I ask, hoping my hammering heart doesn’t sound in my voice. “I have cake. And tea.”

He pats my hand in his elbow. “In a little while. It’s such a nice day. Did you finish the book?”

“Still reading,” I admit easily and tell him where I’m up to. As we walk along the curve of the lake, he says that he’s thinking about doing one of those icebreaker Antarctica expeditions.

“Oh my god, really?”

He makes that endearing rueful face. “Maybe next year. For my birthday.”

I chuckle, hugging his arm and realising only a little too late that means I’ve just pressed my breasts against it. Suddenly I’m shockingly aware of how tight my nipples are, and I remember the particular bra I’m wearing under the so silky blouse, the one I bought only a couple days ago for this date. He keeps talking about the expedition, what he’s read up on it so far, but I know he’s feeling the same heat I am. My mouth is dry, I feel predatory and unbearably shy at the same time. The breeze is slipping around my bare legs, slipping up under the slim skirt. And eventually I tug him away from the lake, towards the path out. 

This is the first time he’ll be in my apartment. We keep the conversation light as we climb the stairs, as I open the front door. His cologne moves around me as I let him in, and I can feel the longing on my face as I watch him move past. 

“Oh this is nice,” he says with genuine appreciation, looking around at the tiny studio.

I close the door and lean against it, happy to experience my space through his eyes. “You’re seeing it at its best. This time of the afternoon when the sun comes in through the curtains -- this is my favourite time.”

He agrees, wandering across the floorboards to touch the white furry cushion among the patterned ones on the couch. Somehow I know we’re both ignoring the wide low bed under the window.

“Tea?”

“Yes, please. Just --”

“Black, I know.” 

I like the sight of him among all my things, how his silver hair gleams amid all the colours, in the diffused sunshine through the orange gingham curtains. How he moves, tall and dark blue and beautiful, between all my quirky as fuck furnishings. He smiles at the Classic Hollywood posters on the walls, grins wider at the Star Wars figurines ranged on the bookcase, tilts his head to read the spines on the shelves. Touches his fingertips to the red satin ribbons curling and cascading from the tall lamp, and bends to examine the boxsets arranged on the shelf below the television. Reminded, I grab the remote and turn the stereo on. He glances up at the display and I say across from the kitchen area, “Put something on if you want.”

We haven’t actually discussed music yet, no. I set the kettle to boil, getting the cups out as I listen for what he chooses. Really, it’s quite possible our tastes overlap since mine ranges over decades and several genres, and he’s proven over the past few dates that he’s pretty pop culture savvy. I’m not sure if he knows just how important that is to me but he will.

I recognise the beat and the orchestral swells immediately, turning startled to see him move towards me with that slow deep smile. “You know Goldfrapp?”

“Mm.” He bends his head and kisses my mouth, so slow and deep my head swims, my eyes fluttering closed. He tastes of chocolate and coffee and cigarettes, everything I want and moan for, twining my arms around his head and letting all my curves melt against the firmness of his body. And then he lifts his head, his eyes a certain sultry blue grey as he tells me with his reddened wet mouth, “I like what I’ve heard.” 

“Oh, you,” I say thickly, incoherent with desire, and he does that little mischievous boy grin. His hands, so large and light, are on my hips. I have no idea how to make what I want happen. And the kettle beeps to one side, rescuing us for the moment. He lets me move away, maybe I imagine that his hands linger, reluctant. 

“What, what kind of music do you like,” I stammer. I don’t know why I’m trying to make conversation, I don’t know why I don’t just throw him down and have my way with him. He certainly wouldn’t mind that, from the glinting way he looks at me so often, with so much carnal promise.

“Oh, lots of stuff,” he murmurs. As I pour the hot water into each cup, he comes silently to my back, smoothing one palm along the curve of my hip. “Punk, a lot of rap --”

“Rap,” I echo, startled.

“Mm-hmm. Is that a problem,” he asks and I glance up to catch a sliver of ice blue eyes in the sunlight. Mocking eyes and twisting clever mouth. 

“No. Er, it’s just unexpected. Not like that horrible misogynist stuff?” I’m babbling as I take out the tea strainer, I know this, but then he hasn’t stopped touching me, now tracing the lower edge of the broad belt with the fingertips of one hand.

He makes a wordless sound. “Loads of music is misogynist, not just rap. Country, for instance --”

“I hate country. Well, except for a few crossover stuff. Here. Tea.” I have to take a breath as he steps away, my heart is beating so damned fast. He looks down at the steaming cup, his face so elegant, a thousand delicate freckles on the pale skin. My god, he’s so beautiful. I’ve said that a lot to myself over the past few weeks, glad no one else hears it but me.

“Come here.” 

My voice is barely a breath against the swirling sumptuous music. But he hears it, all his humour fading as he steps towards me, his face inclining, eyes intense blue. And I reach up and kiss his mouth like I’ve wanted to for so long. Hands in his hair, lips open, getting bolder and bolder as he takes hold of my hips and pulls me up against him. Only he doesn’t stop there. He gets his hands into the fabric of my skirt and drags it up my thighs, shocking me into a gasp, swallowing my gasp. Up past my knees until, his mouth filthy hot on mine, he picks me up off my feet. And then we’re on the couch and I’m covered by the length of his warm male body, all sleek blue suit and soft white cashmere. “Oh god.” I’m so overwhelmed and so fucking greedy at the same time, holding his face so we kiss and kiss, so his breath is hot and ragged into my mouth. 

He takes his weight off me, licks at my mouth, and smooths the palm of one hand down along the contour of my bare calf. I think I may faint. The point of my stiletto heel digs into the couch and I reach for the strap.

“No,” he mutters, rough, “keep them on. Keep -- take this off.” But he doesn’t pull at the buttons on my slightly straining blouse. While I’m fascinated by how the high colour on his cheekbones make his freckles that much more defined, he rubs the back of his hand against the emerald silk between my breasts. “Take this off, I want to --” he glances at my face, uncertain in his lust for a moment. I love that so much, it makes me brazen. 

My shoulders against the askew cushions at the couch arm, I put my fingers to the buttons. “This?”

He breathes in sharp through his nose, moving back enough to watch. And oh I thoroughly enjoy this, the shameless arch and reveal of my breasts full and lush, displayed to their best in the so transparent bra with its fine tulle and delicate swirls of black velvet around the flagrant pout of my nipples. 

“Fuck,” he says like a slow depraved prayer. So very pleased, I drag my fingernails down from my collarbones into the deep softness of my cleavage, and he moves towards the gesture like he’s summoned. 

“Like what you see,” I murmur, unable to resist. 

He laughs on a breath, his eyes hot. “Christ, yes.” His touch is too light, barely fingertips circling around my tightening nipple. I moan his name, so impatient. And he kisses me savagely, all his elegance falling away, open-mouthed and wet and demanding, going from my mouth to my right breast without warning. The heat, the way his hand fits to the heavy under curve make me weak, sinking with a gasp against the cushions. My hair is coming undone, I don’t care. There’s a growl to his breath, to the way he kisses my mouth, tongue in, and goes back to my breast. He closes his mouth around my nipple, something about that makes me hook my calves over the back of his legs, wanting to wrap him in me. “Oh fuck,” I’m moaning, dragging my fingers through his hair as he pulls the soaked delicate tulle down and sucks on my bare sharp nipple. One, then the other, he’s so fucking greedy, his lips so red and uneven, and I’m rocking up against the shape of his cock in the sleek blue trousers. He lets me do that, buries his face for a moment in the hot smooth curves of my cleavage, and then kisses me so deep and hard I can’t breathe and can’t think. 

“I knew,” he mutters against my mouth, “I knew you’d be like this.”

“Like what,” I gasp, getting my hands under the jacket to stroke the soft wool of the turtleneck. It’s not enough, it’s not enough.

He grinds his cock against me, shocking me all over again. “Wanton.” His eyes are so clear when we’re this close. “Beautiful.”

My heart hurts with joy, maybe it shows on my face but I don’t care. Smoothing my palms down his lapels, I say with my best coquette look, “Aren’t you a little overdressed?”

Oh god, I love it when sex is actually fun. And I half knew it would be fun with him. He laughs shortly, his eyes still hot, and rears back off me. While he’s distracted with pulling off his jacket and the sweater, I take the opportunity to reach under my skirt and swiftly pull off my underwear. He doesn’t seem to notice and comes back to me with bare smooth shoulders and his mouth all tender. We’re relaxing into this now, the urgency easing somewhat. I don’t mind that so much, I want to enjoy this, enjoy him. 

He shapes his big hand to my half exposed breast, rubs his thumb across the nipple with a sort of contemplative appreciation. I don’t need to say it, he bends his head and tastes. The swipe of his tongue makes me arch up, breathless and loving this attention. And oh he spends a good long while on my breasts, tongue and teeth and hands, all the while meeting me in a small relentless rhythm of his cock rubbing through the trousers against my baring wetting cunt. My skirt is rucked up almost at my waist, the belt digging up under my aching breasts. And I’m in a daze of eroticism, mouthing the freckles on his shoulders, stroking my hands along his back. He’s so warm and so touchable, I keep being amazed that he’s here, that I can have him like this. 

He reaches down and clasps my strapped ankle, moves my foot just enough that the tip of my heel presses down on the back of his calf. I understand, a small soft grunt in my throat as I dig the stiletto in, raking it along material and muscle so he groans a little and uses his teeth on me. He slips one arm under me, lifts me free of the couch, my spine curving like I’m some pliable creature for his pleasure, and lets me clutch at his shoulders as he feeds on my flesh, seizing the curve of my breast with his teeth like he’s going to mark me, like he’s going to eat me. “Fuck,” I manage, pushing my hands between us so I can touch him in return. “Wait, I want --”

“What,” he challenges softly, his voice all raspy on the edges, “what do you want?” 

I push him back, taking control of my desire, and he goes, his smile wide and happy. “Christ, you’re lovely,” I tell him, dragging my hands up his smooth abdomen, up to the tiny pale pink shapes of his own nipples. He lies back under me, his head against the couch arm, and strokes lazily up the backs of my thighs as I lick my way up him. Gasps a little when my breasts rub over the shape of his cock, when my nipples catch on the skin of his torso. And when I come to him, all feline predatory and hair spilling down, he reaches his hands out and takes hold of my head, brings my mouth to his, smiling blue before the lashes come down and he kisses me with so much wonderful concentration. 

My skirt is up around my waist now, bottom bare to the cool air, cunt exposed. As he kisses me, I can feel his knuckles rubbing up the inside of my thigh. God, yes. My tongue licking into his mouth, bold and deep, I spread my knees, and he squeezes the curve of my bottom with one hand, swallows my gasp when he uses his other hand to dip his fingertips into the slick parting seam of my cunt. I’m so wet and he tells me that, tells me how hot I feel, as he strokes me deeper. His fingers are so much thicker than I realised, invade me steady and gentle, but soon I’m pushing back on them, fucking myself slowly on his hand, giving myself permission to be as wanton as he said he knew. With a sort of gladness, he bites at my mouth, at my chin, and pushes two fingers deep into my cunt, opening me up for him. 

It reminds me of his cock, how big he may be, if I can take him. A incoherent murmur on my lips, I tug at the waistband of his trousers, wanting to see. He laughs breathlessly, starts to unbutton the fly, and I palm the shape of his cock through the material. I want to say something sexy and sophisticated but I can’t think of anything. All my wit has melted in this heat, this delirium of physicality. He takes his cock out and touches his fingers to my lips, his breathing fast and shallow. And I know immediately how to drive him crazy. 

No words.

I glance at him from under my lashes, unable to stop my fiendish smile, and lower myself, undulate my spine so his cock touches the wire and tulle of my bra, so it slides up into the sleek heat between my naked breasts. He lets out a loud ragged sound, shocked blue eyes, and his hand is immediately in my hair, urgent and demanding. “Fuck, fuck,” he repeats, and then he is fucking my tits, his cock hot and reddening, the head wet and so lickable, so irresistible I duck my head and take it into my mouth on the next upstroke. He cries out and arches against me, into me. I know at some point today I’m going to gag on his cock and I don’t care, I want to. He grasps the flesh of my left breast, my nipple crushed in his palm, and fucks up into my cleavage dampening with a sheen of sweat. Suddenly I’m realising how hot it is in the studio, how the late afternoon sunshine is gleaming the paleness of his chest. Wisps of silver hair sticking to his temples, his mouth is sluttish and open as he watches us fuck like this. 

But he won’t let himself come. Just as I think he will, he pulls off and pushes me back, fierce blue eyes and that savagery thrumming around him again. Like we’ve moved past the need for any speech. I’m caught around the waist and turned, put on all fours, handled like I’m his property. Outraged and ridiculously turned on, I almost say something but he’s pushed me over a cushion, my bottom up in the air, and my thighs are shoved apart. Cool air on my cunt and then the appalling heat of his mouth. I cry out, pull away and then push back in the very next second, wanting more, wanting everything, wanting him to just fucking have me in every possible way. My arms braced on the end of the couch, I’m gasping and feeling on fire, feeling everything right now. The cushion I’m lying over is the furry white one, unbearably soft and luxurious, rubbing a thousand different silky strands against my sensitised breasts. It’s all so decadent I can’t breathe with the way he spreads my cunt with his fingers and eats at me. He finds my clit and is merciless, his tongue making me squirm and moan shamelessly, my cunt throbbing and wetter and wetter, seizing on the thickness of his fingers. If I look back now, over my shoulder and spine, all I’m going to see is the short ruffled mess of his silver hair between the curves of my bottom. If I look down below my body between my thighs, I’m going to see his cock hard and red, and he’s probably got one hand around it. So I don’t do either and bury my face down against the cushion, sobbing a little, my whole body shaking with the need to come. 

Just when my legs are trembling, when I can feel that edge of perfect release near, he pulls back and says, “Do you want to be fucked here or on the bed?” 

Jesus fucking christ. I nearly spasm, outraged all over again and completely addled with lust. Struggling up, I collapse against the couch back, glaring at him as I pull at the belt that’s been driving me mad. “I really don’t care where you fuck me, I just want you to fuck me.”

He goes from slightly terrifying dom to adorable grinning boy in literally one second. Suddenly it’s fun again. As I cast the belt aside, he bites his lip and comes to kiss me, all warm and lovely, his hand skimming up over the bunched skirt to rub the back of his fingers against my aching nipple like a sort of comfort. “Take me to bed,” he says, his voice low and rich. And I fall in love with him all over again.

In the middle of the small sunny studio, he kicks off his socks and shoes, and takes off his trousers. Naked, he is vulnerable and all the more beautiful for it, his expression intent as he puts his hands on me and unzips the side of my skirt. As he pulls it down, I run my hands into his hair, tracing the shapes of his ears. Laugh on a breath when he can’t resist kissing the point of my nipple as he goes down my body. I step out of the skirt, knowing full well the bra and heels stay on, feeling myself blush a little as he straightens up and looks at my nakedness. He’s not just appreciative anymore, he looks at me with a quiet gleaming possessiveness. It takes my breath away.

“Come here,” he murmurs and tips my face up, his hands big and gentle, cradling my jaw. He kisses so filthy, like there’s nowhere he wouldn’t go on my body. My knees actually buckle a little, and he steadies me with one hand, then slides the other surely between my legs. “Fuck,” I cry against his mouth but he’s walking me backwards over the catching rug and the floorboards, and fingering my cunt like I’m not totally fucking ready for him. The bed catches the back of my calves and I sprawl back across it, shocked to be looking up at him. 

He stands there for a moment, gazing down at me, thoughtful. Oh god, it’s not a table after all, it’s this. And suddenly I know what I look like, against the scarlet patterned covers -- hair unspooling across my shoulders, wide eyes and lush parted mouth, naked in the late afternoon sunshine, all smooth skin and breasts pushed up on display, legs splayed to reveal the hair at my cunt, the ankle cuffs dark and heels fierce, digging into the soft silk quilt. I know what I can say now but I’m too mesmerised, too soft with desire to do anything but accept him when he comes down to me and kisses my mouth. 

We’re going to make love, I know this. It may have started out fun, may have gotten hypersexual, but now as he eases me back against the pillows, his chest warm against mine, I know from the softness of his mouth that this is going to be unbearably lovely and tender. For a moment, I’m utterly terrified, I don’t want any of this deep intimacy, to be so emotionally and physically exposed to him. But then I give up that thought and let it dissipate, let it float out through the open window past the curtains fluttering on the breeze. 

He coaxes me to touch him, turns onto his back so I can lick at him like I want, use my teeth on his nipples. His hands don’t stop moving on my skin as I go all over him, as I take the scent of him deep into me, the taste of the inside of his thighs. I don’t gag on his cock, that can happen later. For now, he’s so close that I’m only going to lick at it and feel him shake, feel his fingers tighten on me. The music swirls on as he makes these low needy sounds in his throat, as he curves his hands around my breasts and I run my teeth and nails up across his chest to his throat, up so he lifts his chin for me and I bite the perfect angular line of his jaw. 

“Like this,” I ask softly, taking hold of his cock and spreading my thighs across his. “Do you want me to be on top?”

“What, whatever you want,” he manages, his head falling back against the pillow with a groan. Then he jolts up. “Wait, no, condom.” Adorably earnest, he says, “I brought condoms. Shall I --”

“Shut up, please. I am an adult woman, I am on goddamned birth control. And I’m pretty sure we’re both clean. Are we clean,” I ask, somewhat imperiously.

He grins, relaxing back against the pillow. “At this point, I could just lie, couldn’t I?”

“You could,” I agree. “And then I could make your life a living hell if I catch anything off you. Now, do you want me to be on top or not?”

His smile is unnervingly cherubic. “Whatever you want.”

I want everything, every possible position, and he laughs shakily when I tell him this. For now, his hands are firm on my hips. He watches me with steady blue grey eyes as I ease the head of his cock into my cunt, and I watch as he starts to feel it, as I sink slow down on the length of him and his face tips back, mouth open on a long gasp, eyes closing with so much sensation. My cunt engulfs him, soft and wet, and I hook my shoes back over his thighs, aware of the sharp heels pointing up. I get leverage, I straighten my back and undulate my hips, getting all the surer, all the more confident as he lies there and lets me set the pace. Soft grunts between his red lips, his hands tight on my hipbones, I fuck him slow and relentless, feeling merciless myself because he’s blushing all the way up his chest, gleaming with sweat, his breathing ragged. I’m going to fucking torture him.

“Come on,” I say softly. His eyes fly open, blue seizing on me. “Fuck me back. Fuck me like the porn guys in the movies.”

He laughs on a breath, teeth blunt against his crooked lower lip. And he grabs me up, pushes his hips down against the mattress. He fucks up into me hard and fast, his eyes intense and unwavering on my face. I laugh, exhilarated because this is so much better, and he rolls me without asking permission, suddenly all energy unleashed. Grabs my calf and pulls until he has hold of my strapped ankle, until he can bend my knee back against my chest, stretching me open. He hammers into me, going past intense to brutal, making me cry out, so thrilled, so caught up in the animalistic fury of this. He’s going to hurt me and I don’t care right now, and I don’t care because he pulls my foot so the point of my stiletto digs into the fair skin of his chest. That’s going to leave a mark. 

No, he doesn’t hurt me. He slows down, switches his rhythm to slow and deep and measured, so I’m nearly sobbing with pleasure, pulling him down to me. His mouth finds mine, he’s saying something to me but I can’t hear him beyond the roaring of blood in my ears, beyond the thundering of my heart and pleasure about to crash through me. 

Somehow I manage to push him back, turning onto my hands and knees. And this is what I love best, him taking hold of my hips, the feel of his cock sinking back in, the feel of my cunt pleasantly used and thick with wetness. Being able to meet his rhythm, to angle down so his cock hits that lovely bundle of nerves inside me over and over again, controlling my own pleasure on him. He reaches between my legs and finds my clit with his fingers, sensation spiralling through me. One hand there and one hand clasping my bare hot breast because he’s adorably predictable like that. “Oh god,” I’m pleading, lost in the music, lost in the sunshine and the colours and the heat, in the rush of his skin against mine, the sound of his breath and his voice. He lets go of my clit, runs his palm up the length of my spine, and suddenly, viciously he’s got hold of my hair, one fistful, and he pulls sharp and hard, cracking my head back, and I’m coming so violently I think I’m going to die.

It takes forever to regain any semblance of thought. The world creeps back in fragments -- the smell of sex and flesh, the feel of the crushed quilt below my pounding heart, the weight of him hot and heavy on my back. I whimper a little, panicking because I can’t quite breathe, and he rolls off, breathless himself but concerned. “All right?”

“Mm.” I pretty much climb into his arms, unashamed to be very needy and very clingy in the aftermath of that shattering experience. We lie together for a long exhausted while, waiting for our bodies to calm down. And eventually he starts to stroke my hair, his fingertips touching my jaw.

“You’re sure you’re okay? I didn’t hurt you?”

He’s all hoarse now, and I have my eyes shut but I can sense that worried expression. Rubbing my cheek against his chest, I mumble, “Bit late to be asking that, isn’t it? You could have killed me with that hair thing.”

A little pause, and then: “But I didn’t.”

“Whiplash.” I poke my finger into the flesh above his heart. “I could have terrible whiplash right now. Need a collar and all that.”

“I’d like to put a collar on you,” he says, clearly without thinking, and looks just as comically startled when I goggle up at him. 

“Not the sexy kind,” I complain loudly as his body shakes with laughter. “The unattractive puffy kind that makes me walk around like that --” I stretch my neck up and now he’s laughing so hard there are tears in his eyes. Satisfied that I’ve completely destroyed the mood, I discard the bra and heels, and cuddle down with him.

We doze off. 

When I surface, the apartment is quiet, all soft grey shadows, the breeze cool through the curtains. And he’s just turned on the fairy lights around the window, naked and glimmering gold as he looks up at them with a contented smile. In the warm sheets, I prop myself up on my elbows, charmed by the sight of him. “You’re so pretty …”

A little ironic, he comes back to bed and kisses me. He’s gotten his cigarettes at some point, and now I watch as he lights up and lies on his back, arm over his head, looking up at the flicker of gold across the ceiling. I’m tracing circles around his nipples, connecting his freckles in the dimness, aware that I’m already sore inside but that’s okay. I look at the shape of his profile, the perfect line of his nose and the precise small shape of his mouth as he thinks his own private thoughts, the cigarette end glowing orange as he rests the back of his wrist against his forehead. 

“Are you going to stay all weekend?”

He blinks, turning his face a little to look at me. “Do you want me to?”

“Yes. Stay and fuck me all weekend.”

“Mm.” His mouth curls. “I’d like that,” he says and kisses me with just the barest hint of tongue. And then he pulls back and says with a frown, “What happened to cake?”

“Oh!” I bounce up in bed, excited. “I have cake! Yes, cause it’s still my birthday!” As I scramble out of bed, he lies back and laughs. There’s such uncomplicated happiness about him that it lingers in my mind. I grab up my black silky robe from the clothes heaped on the chair by the wall and belt it around me as I hurry to the kitchen. I like that he has such a capacity for happiness, it seems important, especially when I consider my own darkness and the slight cruelty to his intelligence. So we’re complicated creatures after all, who isn’t?

“And I have champagne,” I exclaim, pulling the bottle triumphantly out of the fridge. It’s been in there for months, spoils from a hen’s night.

“Perfect!”

“Come open it, please, I don’t trust myself with a cork.”

In the glowing colours of my studio, still quite naked, he screws up his face with earnest concentration and pops the champagne without spilling a drop. Amid the laughter and mutual congratulations, we pour it into two flutes I have to dust off because I have never used them ever, and he smiles at me with that deep fondness as he clinks his glass against mine.

I take a sip and confess, “I don’t really like champagne.”

“Me neither.” His hair is sticking up like a silver muppet. “But it’s the principle of the thing,” he insists, and I agree.

We eat cake in bed, chocolate ganache and butterscotch brittle and little bits of raspberry. He taps the ash off his cigarette into a small saucer on the bedside table, and pulls me close, his arm around my shoulders. I know I should probably check my phone for calls and messages and social media, but really I can’t be bothered. I’m too happy here. 

“Was that my present,” I ask, suddenly struck by a thought. “Your cock? I mean, not that I’m complaining, it was very satisfactory --”

He goes from startled to uproarious laughter to outrage in a matter of seconds. “Satisfactory,” he splutters.

“But, like, I would expect something a bit different,” I’m saying as he gets out of bed and goes, bare and lovely, across to get something out of his jacket from the floor. 

“No wrapping,” I ask when he comes back. It’s small enough to be concealed in his hand, and that terrifies me even though I know -- hope -- that he’s far too sensible to give me something as insane as a ring this early.

“No wrapping.” He sits on the side of the bed and lifts his hand up, his eyes gleaming like the silver that catches light. My own breath catches. Reaching out my hand, I can hear my voice shakier than I intend. “Do you always give women a key to your apartment --”

“House.”

“-- house on the fifth date?”

“Only if it’s their birthday.”

“And if they put out.”

“Definitely if they put out,” he murmurs, and kisses me long and tender.

It’s going to be a wonderful year.

**Author's Note:**

> So I couldn't resist making him designer of [my favourite building](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Central_Park,_Sydney#/media/File:\(1\)Central_building_Broadway_Sydney-2.jpg) ... even though the real life architects are like French.


End file.
